There are some sightings in the wild that stay with you long after you’ve packed away your camera, shut down your laptop, and returned to the predictable rhythm of everyday life. And then there are sightings that feel like the forest itself has paused, offering you a moment so rare, so perfectly framed, that you cannot help but feel humbled. My recent sighting in Tadoba falls squarely into the second category.
Tadoba has always been generous to me. As someone who spends much of his day reading RFPs, talking to clients across time zones, and navigating the energetic chaos of business development, the forest is my reset button. It’s the place where deadlines dissolve and the only calendar invite that matters is the one nature sends—without warning, without agenda.
On this particular morning, the forest was fresh with the softness of early light. The Mahua trees stretched tall and silent around us, their leaves glowing with a green so striking that it felt almost curated. As we drove deeper in, our guide slowed down. The driver raised his hand gently, signaling us to quieten. And then I saw her—a young tigress, serene and perfectly poised on a small hillock, as if she had been waiting for the forest to draw its curtains.
At first glance, I knew this sighting was special. Not just because of the tigress herself, but because of where she chose to rest. Usually, tiger photographs have familiar backdrops—dusty tracks, thick bamboo clusters, rugged tree bark, or chaotic undergrowth. They tell stories of stealth, camouflage, or sometimes just lazy afternoon indulgence. But this… this was different. Behind her, the Mahua forest bokehed into a mosaic of soft greens and warm yellows. It looked less like a forest and more like a painting where she had been placed deliberately by an artist who understood contrast and composition better than any of us with expensive cameras ever could.
But from where our vehicle initially stood, the angle wasn’t right. I could see the tiger clearly, but the background—the very thing that made this moment unique—wasn’t lining up. And in wildlife photography, the background is everything. Without it, even the most majestic subject can lose its magic. I turned to our driver and requested him to reposition the vehicle. This isn’t always easy in the forest—sometimes the terrain resists you, sometimes visibility turns tricky, and sometimes the tiger decides she has better places to be. But that morning, everything aligned.
Slowly, carefully, he adjusted our position. And suddenly, through my viewfinder, I saw the moment transform. The green tapestry behind her unfurled perfectly, enveloping the tigress in a cradle of colour. She looked straight into the lens—calm, curious, but unmistakably regal. It felt like she approved of the angle too.
And in that instant, I felt gratitude. Gratitude for the forest, for the driver’s patience, for the tigress’s stillness, and for the privilege of witnessing a frame that doesn’t come often—even after countless safaris.
As someone who has spent years chasing opportunities—whether in business or in the forest—I’ve realised that sometimes the biggest difference is a small shift in perspective. Had we not moved a few feet to the left, this image would have been just another tiger photograph. But by making that deliberate choice to reposition, a story emerged. The story of a tigress resting on a hillock, framed by a background so uncommon that it elevates the image from documentation to emotion.
The forest teaches this subtly, without corporate jargon or leadership books. It shows us that sometimes we must adjust our position, rethink our angle, and look again. And only then does the real picture reveal itself.
I stepped into the safari hoping to see a tiger. What I received instead was a lesson in awareness, patience, and intent. Photography, after all, isn’t just about clicking. It’s about seeing—seeing beyond the obvious, beyond the subject, and into the interplay of light, space, and emotion.
When I look at this image now, I don’t just see a tigress. I see the stillness of that morning, the anticipation in our vehicle, the gentle confusion on her face as she watched us reposition ourselves, and the quiet thrill when everything finally aligned. I see an ecosystem of decisions—hers and mine—coming together for a fraction of a second.
And most importantly, I see a reminder. A reminder to shift perspectives more often. A reminder that uniqueness rarely presents itself without intent. And a reminder that even in the wild’s unpredictable landscape, there is beauty waiting—if only we take the effort to look from the right angle.
Tadoba gave me a gift that morning. Not just a photograph, but an experience that I carry with me—one that sits somewhere between memory and meaning. And every time I revisit this frame, I’m reminded why I return to the forests again and again: not to escape the world I work in, but to reconnect with the part of me that still believes in pauses, perspectives, and the magic that lies in the green quiet of a forest.
